The detached anecdotes of Lord
Byron are numerous, and many of them much to his credit: those that are so,
I am desirous to preserve, and should have interwoven them in the body of the work, could I
have found a fitting place for doing so, or been able to have made them part and parcel of
a systematic narrative.

I.

“A young lady of considerable talents, but who had never been able to succeed in
turning them to any profitable account, was reduced to great hardships through the
misfortunes of her family. The only persons from whom she could have hoped for relief
were abroad; and urged on, more by the sufferings of those she held dear, than by her
own, summoned up resolution to wait on Lord Byron at
his apartments in the Albany, and solicit his subscription to a volume of poems: she
had no previous knowledge of him, except from his works; but from the boldness and
feeling expressed in them, she concluded that he must be

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a man of
a kind heart and amiable disposition. She entered the apartment with diffidence, but
soon found courage to state her request, which she did with simplicity and delicacy. He
listened with attention; and when she had done speaking, he, as if to divert her
thoughts from a subject which could not but be painful to her, began to converse with
her in words so fascinating, and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he had been
writing, until he put a slip of paper into her hand, saying it was his subscription,
and that he most heartily wished her success.—‘But,’ added he,
‘we are both young, and the world is very censorious; and so if I were to
take any active part in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do you
harm, rather than good.’ The young lady, overpowered by the prudence and
delicacy of his conduct, took her leave; and upon opening the paper in the street,
which in her agitation she had not previously looked at, she found it was a draft upon
is banker for fifty pounds.”—Galignani’s
edition.

II.

“While in the island of Cephalonia, at Metaxata, an embankment, near which
several persons had been engaged digging, fell in, and buried some of them alive. He
was at dinner when he heard of the accident; starting up from table, he fled to the
spot, accompanied by his physician. The labourers employed in extricating their
companions soon became alarmed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying, they
believed they had dug out all the bodies which had been covered by the rubbish.
Byron endeavoured to force them to continue
their exertions; but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade, and began to dig most
zealously; when the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in saving two more persons
from certain death.”—Galignani’s edition.

APPENDIX.

333

III.

“A schoolfellow of Byron’s had a very
small Shetland pony, which his father had bought for him; they went one day to the
banks of the Don to bathe, but having only the pony, they were obliged to follow the
good old practice, called in Scotland, ‘ride and tie;’ when they came to
the bridge over the dark romantic stream, Byron bethought him of
the prophecy which he has quoted in Don
Juan.

‘Brig o’ Balgounie, black’s your wa’

Wi’ a wife’s ae son and a mare’s ae foal

Doun ye shall fa!’

He immediately stopped his companion, who was riding, and asked him if he remembered
the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be
‘a mare’s ae foal,’ he would ride over first, because he had only a
mother to lament him, should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling of the bridge;
whereas the other had both a father and a mother.”—Galignani’s edition.

IV.

“When Lord Byron was a member of the Managing
(query, mis-managing) Committee of Drury-lane Theatre, Bartley was speaking with him on the decay of the drama, and took
occasion to urge his Lordship to write a tragedy for the stage: ‘I
cannot,’ was the reply, ‘I don’t know how to make the people go
on and off in the scenes, and know not where to find a fit character.’
‘Take your own,’ said Bartley, meaning in the honesty
of his heart, one of his Laras or Childe Harolds. ‘Much obliged to you,’ was
the reply—and exit in a huff. Byron thought he spoke literally of his own real
character.”

told me, that an Italian apothecary having sent him one
day a packet of medicines addressed to ‘Mons. Byron,’ this mock-heroic
mistake aroused his indignation, and he sent the physic back, to learn better
manners.”—Leigh Hunt.

VI.

“He affected to doubt whether Shakspeare
was so great a genius as he has been taken for. There was a greater committal of
himself at the bottom of this notion then he supposed; and perhaps circumstances had
really disenabled him from having the proper idea of Shakspeare,
though it could not have fallen so short of the truth as he pretended. Spenser he could not read, at least he said so. I lent
him a volume of the ‘Faery
Queen,’ and he said he would try to like it. Next day he brought it to
my study-window and said, ‘Here, Hunt, here is your
Spenser; I cannot see any thing in him.’ When he
found Sandys’s Ovid among my
books, he said, ‘God! what an unpleasant recollection I have of this book! I
met with it on my wedding-day; I read it while I was waiting to go to
church.’”—Leigh
Hunt.

VII.

“‘Have you seen my three helmets?’ he inquired one day, with
an air between hesitation and hurry. Upon being answered in the negative, he said he
would show them me, and began to enter a room for that purpose; but stopped short, and
put it off to another time. These three helmets he had got up in honour of his going to
war, and as harbingers to achievement. They were the proper classical shape, gilt, and
had his motto— ‘Crede
Byron.’”—Leigh Hunt.

VIII.

“His superstition was remarkable. I do not mean

APPENDIX.

335

> in the
ordinary sense, because he was superstitious, but because it was petty and old
womanish. He believed in the ill-luck of Fridays; and was seriously disconcerted if
anything was to be done on that frightful day of the week. Had he been a Roman, he
would have started at crows, when he made a jest of augurs. He used to tell a story of
somebody’s meeting him while in Italy, in St.
James’s-street.”—Leigh Hunt.

IX.

One night, in the opera, while he was in Italy, a gentleman appeared in one of the
lower boxes, so like Lord Byron, that he attracted a
great deal of attention. I saw him myself, and was not convinced it was not him until I
went close to the box to speak to him. I afterwards ascertained that the stranger
belonged to the Stock Exchange.—J. G.

X.

On another occasion, during the queen’s
trial, it was reported that he had arrived from abroad, and was seen entering the House
of Lords. A friend of mine mentioned the circumstance to him afterwards.
“No!’ said he, “that would have been too much, considering the
state of matters between me and my own wife.”—J.
G.

XI.

Lord Byron said that Hunt had no
right perception of the sublimity of Alpine scenery; that is, no moral associations in
connexion with such scenery; and that he called a mountain a great impostor. I shall quote
from his visit to Italy what Mr. Hunt says himself: it is daintily
conceived and expressed. “The Alps.—It was the first time I had seen
mountains. They had a fine, sulk look, up aloft in the sky—cold, lofty, and
distant. I used to think that mountains

336

APPENDIX.

would impress me but
little; that by the same process of imagination reversed, by which a brook can be
fancied a mighty river, with forests instead of verdure on its banks, a mountain could
be made a mole-hill, over which we step. But one look convinced me to the contrary. I
found I could elevate better than I could pull down, and I was glad of
it.”—Leigh
Hunt.

XII.

In one of Lord Byron’s
conversations with Doctor Kennedy, he said, in
speaking of the liberality of the late pope, “I like his Holiness very much,
particularly since an order, which I understand he has lately given, that no more
miracles shall be performed.” In speaking of Mr. Henry
Drummond and Lord Calthorpe, he inquired
whether the Doctor knew them. “No!” was the answer; “except by report,
which points them out as eminent for their piety.”—“I know
them very well,” said his Lordship. “They were not always so; but they are
excellent men. Lord Calthorpe was the first who called me an
Atheist, when we were at school at Harrow, for which I gave him as good a drubbing as
ever he got in his life.”—Dr.
Kennedy.

XIII.

“Speaking of witches,” said Lord Byron
to Doctor Kennedy, “what think you of the
witch of Endor? I have always thought that this is the finest
and most finished witch-scene, that ever was written or conceived; and you will be of
my opinion, if you consider all the circumstances and the actors in the case, together
with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language. It beats all the
ghost-scenes I ever read. The finest conception on a similar subject is that of
Goëthe’s devil, Mephistophiles; and though of course you will give
priority to the former, as being inspired, yet the latter, if you know it, will appear
to

APPENDIX.

337

you—at least it does to me—one of the finest and
most sublime specimens of human conception.”—Dr. Kennedy.

One evening Lord Byron was with a
friend at a masquerade in the Argyll-rooms, a few nights after Skeffington’s tragedy of The Mysterious Bride had been damned. His friend was dressed as a nun, who had endured depredation from the French in
Portugal.— “What is she?” said Skeffington,
who came up to his Lordship, pointing to the nun. The reply was, “The Mysterious
Bride.”—J. G.

XV.

“One of Lord Byron’s household had
several times involved himself and his master in perplexity and trouble by his
unrestrained attachment to women. In Greece this had been very annoying, and induced
Lord Byron to think of a means of curing it. A young Suliote
of the guard was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and instructed to place himself
in the way of the amorous swain. The bait took, and after some communication, but
rather by signs than by words, for the pair did not understand each other’s
language, the sham lady was carefully conducted by the gallant to one of Lord
Byron’s apartments. Here the couple were surprised by an enraged
Suliote, a husband provided for the occasion, accompanied by half a dozen of his
comrades, whose presence and threats terrified the poor lackey almost out of his
senses. The noise of course brought Lord Byron to the spot to
laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his
terror.”—Galignani’s edition.

XVI.

“A few days after the earthquake, which took place

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APPENDIX.

on the
21st of February, as we were all sitting at table in the evening, we were suddenly
alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, somewhat similar to that which we had
experienced when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their places, and
there was the same confusion as to the former evening, at which Byron, who was present, laughed immoderately: we were reassured by
this, and soon learnt that the whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our
fears.”—Galignani’s edition.

XVII.

“The regiment, or rather brigade we formed, can be described only as Byron himself describes it. There was a Greek tailor, who
had been in the British service in the Ionian islands, where he had married an Italian
woman. This lady, knowing something of the military service, petitioned Lord
Byron to appoint her husband master-tailor of the brigade. The
suggestion was useful, and this part of her petition was immediately granted. At the
same time, however, she solicited that she might be permitted to raise a corps of women
to be placed under her orders, to accompany the regiment. She stipulated for free
quarters and rations for them, but rejected all claim for pay. They were to be free of
all encumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The
proposition pleased Lord Byron, and stating the matter to me, he
said he hoped I should have no objection. I had been accustomed to see women accompany
the English army, and I knew that though sometimes an encumbrance, they were on the
whole more beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there were many circumstances which
would make their services extremely valuable, and I gave my consent to the measure. The
tailor’s wife did accordingly recruit a considerable number of unencumbered
women, of almost all nations, but principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and ne-

APPENDIX.

339

gresses. ‘I was afraid,’ said Lord
Byron, ‘when I mentioned this matter to you, you would be
crusty and oppose it—it is the very thing. Let me see; my corps outdoes
Falstaff’s. There are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Ragusians, Italians,
Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, and Western Greeks in
front, and to bring up the rear the tailor’s wife and her troop. Glorious
Apollo! No general ever before had such an army.’”—Galignani’s edition.

XVIII.

“Lord Byron had a black groom with him in
Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He always insisted on this
man’s calling him massa, whenever he spoke to him. On one occasion, the groom met
with two women of his own complexion, who had been slaves to the Turks and liberated,
but had been left almost to starve when the Greeks had risen on their tyrant. Being of
the same colour was a bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and he applied to me
to give both these women quarters in the seraglio. I granted the application, and
mentioned it to Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of his
groom and ordered that he should be brought before him at ten o’clock the next
day, to answer for his presumption in making such an application. At ten o’clock
accordingly he attended his master, with great trembling and fear, but stuttered so
when he attempted to speak, that he could not make himself understood. Lord
Byron, endeavouring almost in vain to preserve his gravity, reproved him
severely for his presumption. Blacky stuttered a thousand excuses, and was ready to do
any thing to appease his massa’s anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he
trembling from head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible dread,
all tended to provoke laughter, and Lord Byron fearing his own
dignity

340

APPENDIX.

would be hove overboard, told him to hold his tongue and
listen to his sentence. I was commanded to enter it in his memorandum-book, and then he
pronounced it in a solemn tone of voice, while blacky stood aghast, expecting some
severe punishment, the following doom: ‘My determination is, that the
children born of these black women, of which you may be the father, shall be my
property, and I will maintain them. What say you?’
‘Go—Go—God bless you, massa, may you live great while,’
stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to tell the good news to the two distressed
women.”—Galignani’s edition.

XIX.

“The luxury of Lord
Byron’s living, at this time, in Missolonghi, may be seen from the
following order which he gave his superintendent of the household for the daily expenses of
his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre.

Paras.

Bread, a pound and a half 15

Wine 7

Fish 15

Olives 3

—

40

“This was his dinner; his breakfast consisted of a single cup of tea, without
milk or sugar.”—Galignani’s edition.

XX.

“It is true that Lord Byron’s high
notions of rank were in his boyish days so little disguised or softened down as to draw
upon him at times the ridicule of his companions; and it was at Dulwich, I think, that
from his frequent boast of the superiority of an old English barony over all the later
creations of the peerage, he got the nickname, among the boys, of ‘the Old
English Baron.’”—Moore.

APPENDIX.

341

XXI.

“While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow together, a tyrant a few years
older, whose name was * * * * * * claimed a right to fag little Peel, which claim
(whether rightly or wrongly, I know not) Peel resisted. His resistance, however, was in
vain: * * * * * * not only subdued him, but determined to punish the refractory slave;
and proceeded forthwith to put this determination in practice by inflicting a kind of
bastinado on the inner fleshy side of the boy’s arm, which during the operation
was twisted round with some degree of technical skill, to render the pain more acute.
While the stripes were succeeding each other, and poor Peel writhing under them, Byron
saw and felt the misery for his friend, and although he knew that he was not strong
enough to fight * * * * * with any hope of success, and that it was dangerous even to
approach him, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a blush of rage, tears in
his eyes, and a voice trembling between terror and indignation, asked very humbly if *
* * * * ‘would be pleased to tell him how many stripes he meant to
inflict?’—‘Why,’ returned the executioner,
‘you little rascal, what is that to you?’
‘Because, if you please,’ said Byron, holding out his arm, ‘I
would take half.’”—Moore.

XXII.

“In the autumn of 1802, he passed a short time with his mother at Bath, and
entered rather prematurely into some of the gaieties of the place. At a masquerade,
given by Lady Riddel, he appeared in the
character of a Turkish boy, a sort of anticipation both in beauty and costume, of his
own young Selim in The Bride. On his entering the house, some person
attempted to snatch the diamond crescent from his turban, but was prevented by the
prompt interposition of one of the party.”—Moore.

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APPENDIX.

XXIII.

“You ask me to recall some anecdotes of the time we spent together at Harrowgate,
in the summer of 1806, on our return from college, he from Cambridge, and I from
Edinburgh; but so many years have elapsed since then, that I really feel myself as if
recalling a distant dream. We, I remember, went in Lord
Byron’s own carriage with post-horses; and he sent his groom with
two saddle-horses, and a beautifully-formed, very ferocious bull-mastiff, called Nelson, to meet us there. Boatswain
went by the side of his valet, Frank, on the box with us. The
bull-dog Nelson always wore a muzzle, and was occasionally
sent for into our private room, when the muzzle was taken off much to my annoyance, and
he and his master amused themselves with throwing the room into disorder. There was
always a jealous feud between this Nelson and Boatswain, and whenever the latter came into the room while
the former was there, they instantly seized each other, and then
Byron, myself, Frank,
and all the waiters that could be found, were vigorously engaged in parting them; which
was, in general, only effected by thrusting poker and tongs into the mouth of each. But
one day Nelson unfortunately escaped out of the room without
his muzzle, and, going into the stable-yard, fastened upon the throat of a horse, from
which he could not be disengaged. The stable-boys ran in alarm to find
Frank, who, taking one of his Lordship’s
Wogdon’s pistols, always kept loaded in his room, shot
poor Nelson through the head, to the great regret of
Byron.”—Moore.

XXIV.

“His fondness for dogs, another fancy which accompanied him through life, may be
judged from the anecdotes already given in the account of his expedition to Harrogate.
Of his favourite dog Boatswain,

APPENDIX.

343

whom
he has immortalized in verse, and by whose side it was once his solemn purpose to be
buried, some traits are told, indicative not only of intelligence, but of a generosity
of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a master as Byron. One of these I shall endeavour to relate, as nearly
as possible as it was told to me. Mrs. Byron had
a fox-terrier called Gilpin, with whom her son’s dog
Boatswain was perpetually at war, taking every
opportunity of attacking and worrying him so violently, that it was very much
apprehended he would kill the animal. Mrs. Byron, therefore, sent
off her terrier to a tenant at Newstead, and on the departure of Lord
Byron for Cambridge, his friend Boatswain,
with two other dogs, was intrusted to the care of a servant till his return. One
morning the servant was much alarmed by the disappearance of Boatswain, and throughout the whole of the day he could hear no tidings of
him. At last, towards evening, the stray dog arrived, accompanied by Gilpin, whom he led immediately to the kitchen fire, licking
him, and lavishing upon him every possible demonstration of joy. The fact was, he had
been all the way to Newstead to fetch him, and having now established his former foe
under the roof once more agreed so perfectly well with him ever after, that he even
protected him against the insults of other dogs (a task which the quarrelsomeness of
the little terrier rendered no sinecure); and if he but heard Gilpin’s voice in distress, would fly instantly to his
rescue.”—Moore.

XXV.

“Of his charity and kind-heartedness, he left behind him at Southwell, as indeed
at every place throughout life where he resided any time, the most cordial
recollections. ‘He never,’ says a person who knew him intimately at this
period, ‘met with objects of distress without affording them succour.’
Among many little traits of this nature, which his friends de-

344

APPENDIX.

light to tell, I select the following, less as a proof of his generosity, than from
the interest which the simple incident itself, as connected with the name of Byron, presents. While yet a schoolboy, he happened to be
in a bookseller’s shop at Southwell when a poor woman came in to purchase a
Bible. The price she was told by the shopman was eight shillings. ‘Ah, dear
sir!’ she exclaimed, ‘I cannot pay such a price: I did not think it
would cost half the money.’ The woman was then, with a look of
disappointment, going away, when young Byron called her back, and
made her a present of the Bible.”—Moore.

XXVI.

“In his attention to his person and dress, to be becoming arrangement of his
hair, and to whatever might best show off the beauty with which nature had gifted him,
he manifested, even thus early, his anxiety to make himself pleasing to that sex who
were, from first to last, the ruling stars of his destiny. The fear of becoming what he
was naturally inclined to be, enormously fat, had induced him, from his first entrance
at Cambridge, to adopt, for the purpose of reducing himself, a system of violent
exercise and abstinence, together with the frequent use of warm baths. But the
imbittering circumstance of his life—that which haunted him like a curse, amidst
the buoyancy of youth, and the anticipations of fame and pleasure—was, strange to
say, the trifling deformity of his foot. By that one slight blemish (as, in his moments
of melancholy, he persuaded himself), all the blessings that nature had showered upon
him were counterbalanced. His reverend friend, Mr.
Becher, finding him one day unusually dejected, endeavoured to cheer and
rouse him, by representing, in their brightest colours, all the various advantages with
which Providence had endowed him; and among the greatest, that of ‘a mind
which placed him above the rest of mankind.’

APPENDIX.

345

‘Ah, my dear friend,’ said Byron
mournfully, ‘if this (laying his hand on his forehead) places me above the
rest of mankind, that (pointing to his foot) places me, far below
them.’”—Moore.

XXVII.

“His coming of age, in 1809, was celebrated at Newstead by such festivities as
his narrow means and society could furnish. Besides the ritual roasting of an ox, there
was a ball, it seems, given on the occasion, of which the only particular I could
collect from the old domestic who mentioned it, was, that Mr. Hanson, the agent of her
lord, was among the dancers. Of Lord Byron’s
own method of commemorating the day I find the following curious record in a letter
written from Genoa in 1822. ‘Did I ever tell you that the day I came of age I
dined on eggs and bacon and a bottle of ale? For once in a way they are my
favourite dish and drinkable; but, as neither of them agree with me, I never use
them but on great jubilees—once in four or five years or
so.’”—Moore.

XXVIII.

“At Smyrna Lord Byron took up
his residence in the house of the consul-general, and remained there, with the exception of
two or three days, employed in a visit to the ruins of Ephesus, till the 11th of April. It
was during this time, as appears from a memorandum of his own, that the two first cantos of
Childe Harold, which he had begun five
months before at Joannina, were completed. The memorandum alluded to, which I find prefixed
to his original manuscript of the poem, is as follows:

“In the last edition of M.
D’Israeli’s work on ‘the literary character,’ that gentleman has
given some curious marginal notes, which he found written by Lord
Byron in a copy of this work that belonged to him. Among them is the
following enumeration of the writers that, besides Rycaut, have drawn
his attention so early to the east:

“During Lord Byron’s
administration, a ballet was invented by the elder
Byrne, in which Miss Smith (since
Mrs. Oscar Byrne) had a pas seul. This the lady
wished to remove to a later period in the ballet. The ballet-master refused, and the lady
swore she would not dance it at all. The music incidental to the dance began to play, and
the lady walked off the stage. Both parties flounced into the green-room, to lay the case
before Lord Byron, who happened to be the only person in that
apartment. The noble committee-man made an award in favour of Miss
Smith, and both complainants rushed angrily out of the room at the instant
of my entering it. ‘If you had come a minute sooner,’ said Lord
Byron, ‘you would have heard a curious matter decided on by me: a
question of dancing! by me,’ added he, looking down at the

APPENDIX.

347

lame limb, ‘whom nature, from my birth, has prohibited from taking a single
step.’ His countenance fell after he had uttered this, as if he had said too
much; and for a moment there was an embarrassing silence on both
sides.”—Moore.

XXXI.

The following account of Lord Byron,
at Milan, before he fixed his residence at Venice, is interesting. It is extracted from
The Foreign Literary Gazette, a
periodical work which was prematurely abandoned, and is translated from the French of
M. Stendhal, a gentleman of literary celebrity in
France, but whose works are not much known in this country.

“In 1817, a few young people met every evening at the
Theatre de la Scala, at Milan, in the box of Monsignor Ludovic de Brême, formerly chief almoner of the
ex-king of Italy. This Italian custom, not generally followed in France,
banished all ceremony. The affectation that chills the atmosphere of a French
saloon is unknown in the society of Milan. How is it possible that such a
sentiment can find a place amongst individuals in the habit of seeing each
other above three hundred times in the course of a twelve-month? One evening, a
stranger made his appearance in Monsignor de
Brême’s box. He was young, of middling stature, and
with remarkably fine eyes. As he advanced, we observed that he limped a little.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Monsignor de
Brême, ‘this is Lord
Byron.’ We were afterwards presented to his
Lordship, the whole scene passing with as much ceremonious gravity, as if our
introducer had been De Brême’s grandfather, in
days of yore ambassador from the Duke of Savoy to the court of Louis XIV. Aware of the character of the English,
who generally avoid such as appear to court their society, we cautiously
abstained from conversing with, or even looking at, Lord
Byron. The latter had been informed, that

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APPENDIX.

in the course of the evening he would probably be introduced to a stranger who
had performed the celebrated campaign of Moscow, which still possessed the
charm of novelty, as at that time we had not been spoiled by any romances on
the subject. A fine-looking man, with a military appearance, happening to be of
our party, his Lordship naturally concluded that he was the hero; and
accordingly, in addressing him, relaxed considerably from the natural coldness
of his manner. The next day, however, Byron was
undeceived. Changing his battery, he did me the honour to address me on the
subject of Russia. I idolized Napoleon,
and replied to his Lordship as I should have done to a member of the
legislative assembly who had exiled the ex-emperor to St. Helena. I
subsequently discovered, that Lord Byron was at once
enthusiastic in favour of Napoleon, and jealous of his
fame. He used to say, ‘Napoleon and myself are the only individuals
who sign our names with the initials N. B.’ (Noel
Byron.) My determination to be cold offers some explanation for
the marked kindness with which, at the end of a few days, Lord
Byron did me the favour to regard me. Our friends in the box
imagined, that the discussion which had taken place, and which, though polite
and respectful on my part, had been rather warm, would prevent all further
intimacy between us. They were mistaken. The next evening, his Lordship took me
by the arm, and walked with me for an hour in the saloon of the Theatre de la
Scala. I was gratified with his politeness, for which, at the bottom, I was
indebted to his desire of conversing with an eyewitness on the subject of the
Russian campaign. He even closely cross-questioned me on this point. However, a
second reading of Childe Harold
made amends for all. His progress in the good graces of my Italian friends, who
met every evening in Monsignor de Brême’s box,
was not very rapid.

APPENDIX.

349

I must confess, that his Lordship,
one evening, broached rather a whimsical idea—that, in a discussion which
had just been started, his title added weight to his opinion. On that occasion,
De Brême retorted with the well-known anecdote of
Marshal de Castries, who, shocked at
the deference once paid to D’Alembert’s judgment, exclaimed, ‘A
pretty reasoner truly! a fellow not worth three thousand francs
a-year!’ On another evening, Lord Byron
afforded an opening to ridicule, by the warmth with which he denied all
resemblance between his own character and that of Jean Jacques Rousseau, to whom he had been compared. His
principal objection to the comparison, though he would not acknowledge the
fact, was, that Rousseau had been a servant, and the son
of a watchmaker. We could not avoid a hearty laugh, when, at the conclusion of
the argument, Byron requested from De
Brême, who was allied to the oldest nobility of Turin, some
information relative to the family of Govon, in whose
service Jean Jacques had actually lived. (See Les
Confessions.) Lord Byron always
entertained a great horror of corpulency. His antipathy to a full habit of body
might be called a fixed idea. M.
Pollidori, a young physician who travelled with him, assured us,
that his Lordship’s mother was of low stature and extremely fat. During
at least a third part of the day, Byron was a dandy,
expressed a constant dread of augmenting the bulk of his outward man, concealed
his right foot as much as possible, and endeavoured to render himself agreeable
in female society. His vanity, however, frequently induced him to lose sight of
the end, in his attention to the means. Love was sacrificed;—an affair of
the heart would have interfered with his daily exercise on horseback. At Milan
and Venice, his fine eyes, his handsome horses, and his fame, gained him the
smiles of several young, noble, and lovely females, one of whom, in particular,
performed

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APPENDIX.

a journey of more than a hundred miles for the
pleasure of being present at a masked ball to which his Lordship was invited.
Byron was apprized of the circumstance, but, either from hauteur or shyness, declined an introduction. ‘Your poets
are perfect clowns,’ cried the fair one, as she indignantly
quitted the ball-room. Had Byron succeeded in his
pretensions to be thought the finest man in England, and had his claims to the
fashionable supremacy been at the same time disputed, he would still have been
unsatisfied. In his moments of dandyism, he always pronounced the name of
Brummel with a mingled emotion of
respect and jealousy. When his personal attractions were not the subject of his
consideration, his noble birth was uppermost in his thoughts. At Milan we often
purposely discussed in his presence the question, ‘if Henry IV. could justly pretend to the attribute
of clemency, after having ordered his old companion, the Duke de Biron, to be beheaded?’
‘Napoleon would have acted
differently,’ was his Lordship’s constant reply. It
was ludicrous to observe his respect wavering undecided between acquired
distinction and his own nobility, which he considered far above that of the
Duke de Biron. When the pride of birth and personal
vanity no longer usurped undue sway over his mind, he again became the sublime
poet and the man of sense. Never, after the example of Madame de Staël, did he indulge in
childish vanity of ‘turning a phrase.’ When literary subjects were
introduced, Byron was exactly the reverse of an
academician; his thoughts flowed with greater rapidity than his words, and his
expressions were free from all affectation or studied grace. Towards midnight,
particularly when the music of the opera had produced an impression on his
feelings, instead of describing them with a view to effect, he yielded
naturally to his emotions, as though he had all his life been an inhabitant of
the south.”

APPENDIX.

351

After quoting a passage from Moore’s recently-published Life of Byron, in which the poet obscurely
alludes to his remorse for some unexplained crime, real or imaginary, Mr. Stendhal thus proceeds:

“It is possible that Byron might have had some guilty stain upon his conscience,
similar to that which wrecked Othello’s fame? Such a question can no longer be
injurious but to him who has given it birth. It must be admitted, that during
nearly a third of the time we passed in the poet’s society, he appeared
to us like one labouring under an access of folly, often approaching to
madness. ‘Can it be,’ have we sometimes exclaimed, ‘that in a
frenzy of pride or jealousy he has shortened the days of some fair Grecian
slave, faithless to her vows of love?’ Be this as it may, a great man
once known may be said to have opened an account with posterity. If
Byron played the part of Othello, hundreds of witnesses will be found to bear testimony
to the damning deed; and sooner or later posterity will learn whether his
remorse was founded in guilt, or in the affectation of which he has so
frequently been accused. After all, is it not possible that his conscience
might have exaggerated some youthful error? - - - - - One evening, amongst
others, the conversation turned upon a handsome Milanese female, who had
eagerly desired to venture her person in single combat with a lover by whom she
had been abandoned: the discussion afterwards changed to the story of a prince
who in cold blood had murdered his mistress for an act of infidelity.
Byron was instantly silent, endeavoured to restrain
his feelings, but, unequal to the effort, soon afterwards indignantly quitted
the box. His indignation on this occasion was evidently directed against the
subject of the anecdote, and in our eyes absolved himself from the suspicion of
a similar offence. Whatever might be the crime of which
Byron apparently stood self-accused, I may compare it
to the robbery of a piece of riband, committed by Jean

352

APPENDIX.

Jacques Rousseau during his stay at
Turin. After the lapse of a few weeks, Byron seemed to
have acquired a taste for the society of Milan. When the performances for the
evening were over, we frequently stopped at the door of the theatre to enjoy
the sight of the beauties who passed us in review. Perhaps few cities could
boast such an assemblage of lovely women as that which chance had collected at
Milan in 1817. Many of them had flattered themselves with the idea that
Byron would seek an introduction; but whether from
pride, timidity, or a remnant of dandyism, which induced him to do exactly the
contrary of what was expected, he invariably declined that honour. He seemed to
prefer a conversation on poetical or philosophical subjects. At the theatre,
our discussions were frequently so energetical as to rouse the indignation of
the pit. One evening, in the middle of a philosophical argument on the
principle of utility, Silvio Pellico, a
delightful poet, who has since died in an Austrian prison, came in breathless
haste to apprize Lord Byron that his friend and physician,
Polidori, had been arrested. We
instantly ran to the guard-house. It turned out, that
Polidori had fancied himself incommoded in the pit by
the fur cap of the officer on guard, and had requested him to take it off,
alleging that it impeded his view of the stage. The poet Monti had accompanied us, and, to the number
of fifteen or twenty, we surrounded the prisoner. Every one spoke at once;
Polidori was beside himself with passion, and his face
red as a burning coal. Byron, though he too was in a
violent rage, was, on the contrary, pale as ashes. His patrician blood boiled
as he reflected on the slight consideration in which he was held. I have little
doubt but at that moment he regretted the wall of separation which he had
reared between himself and the ultra party. At all events, the Austrian officer
spied the leaven of sedition in our countenances, and, if he was versed in
history, probably thought of the

APPENDIX.

353

insurrection of Genoa,
in 1740. He ran from the guard-house to call his men, who seized their arms
that had been piled on the outside. Monti’s idea was
excellent; ‘Fortiamo tutti; restino solamente
i titolati.* De
Brême remained, with the Marquis de
Sartirana, his brother, Count Confalonieri,
and Lord Byron. These gentlemen having written their names
and titles, the list was handed to the officer on guard, who instantly forgot
the insult offered to his fur cap, and allowed Polidori to
leave the guard-house. In the evening, however, the doctor received an order to
quit Milan within twenty–four hours. Foaming with rage, he swore that he would
one day return and bestow manual castigation on the governor who had treated
him with so little respect. He did not return; and two years afterwards a
bottle of prussic acid terminated his career;—at least, sic dicitur. The morning after
Polidori’s departure, Byron, in a téte-à-téte with me, complained bitterly of persecution. So little was I acquainted
with i titolati, to use
Monti’s expression, that in the simplicity of my
heart I gave his Lordship the following counsel: ‘Realize,’ said I,
‘four or five hundred thousand francs; two or three confidential friends
will circulate the report of your death, and bestow on a log of wood the
honours of Christian burial in some snug retired spot—the island of Elba,
suppose. An authentic account of your decease shall be forwarded to England;
meanwhile, under the name of Smith or
Wood, you may live comfortably and quietly at Lima.
When, in process of time, Mr. Smith or Mr.
Wood becomes a venerable gray-headed old gentleman, he may even
return to Europe, and purchase from a Roman or Parisian bookseller, a set of
Childe Harold, or Lara, thirtieth edition, with notes
and annotations.

* Let us all go out: let those only remain who are
titled personages.

354

APPENDIX.

Moreover, when Mr. Smith or
Mr. Wood is really about to make his exit from his
life, he may, if he pleases, enjoy one bright original moment: thus may he
say;—‘Lord Byron, who for thirty
years, has been numbered with the dead, even now lingers on this side of
eternity:—I am the man: the society of my countrymen appeared to me
so insipid, that I quitted them in disgust.’
‘My cousin, who is heir to my
title, owes you an infinity of thanks,’ coldly replied
Lord Byron. I repressed the repartee which hovered on
my lips. Byron had a defect in common with all the spoiled
children of fortune. He cherished in his bosom two contradictory inclinations.
He wished to be received as a man of rank, and admired as a brilliant poet. The
Elena of Mayer was at that time the performance most in
vogue at Milan. The public patiently endured two miserable acts, for the
pleasure of hearing a sublime sesteto
in the third. One day, when it was sung with more than ordinary power, I was
struck with the expression of Byron’s eyes. Never
had I seen any thing so enthusiastic. Internally, I made a vow that I never
would of my own free accord sadden a spirit so noble. In the evening, I
recollect that some one alluded to the following singular sonnet of Tasso, in which the poet makes a boast of
incredulity.

‘Odi, Filli, che tuona.....

Ma che curar dobbiam che faccio Giove?’

Godiam noi qui, s’egli è turbato in
cielo,

Tema in volgo i suoi tuoini....

Pera il mondo, e rovini! a me none cale

Se non di quell che più place e diletta;

Che, se tera sarò, terra ancor fui.’

Hear’st thou, Phyllis, it thunders?

But what are Jove’s acts to us?

Let us enjoy ourselves here; if he be troubled in his heaven,

Vulgar spirits may dread his thunder.

Let the world perish and fall in ruins: I care not,

Except for her who pleases me best;

For if dust I shall be, dust I was.

APPENDIX.

355

“‘Those verses,’ said Byron, ‘were written under the influence
of spleen—nothing more. A belief in the Supreme Being was an absolute
necessity for the tender and warm imagination of Tasso. He was, besides, too much of a
Platonist to connect together the links of a difficult argument. When he
composed that sonnet, he felt the inspiration of his genius, and probably
wanted a morsel of bread and a mistress.’ The house in which
Lord Byron resided was situated at the further
extremity of a solitary quarter, at the distance of half a league from the
Theatre de la Scala. The streets of Milan were at that time much infested with
robbers during the night. Some of us, forgetting time and space in the charm of
the poet’s conversation, generally accompanied him to his own door, and
on our return, at two o’clock in the morning, were obliged to pass
through a multitude of intricate, suspicious-looking streets. This circumstance
gave an additional air of romance to the noble bard’s retreat. For my
part, I often wondered that he escaped being laid under contribution. Had it
been otherwise, with his feelings and ideas, he would undoubtedly have felt
peculiarly mortified. The fact is, that the practical jokes played off by the
knights of the road were frequently of the most ludicrous description—at
least to all but the sufferers. The weather was cold, and the pedestrian,
snugly enveloped in his cloak, was often attacked by some dexterous thief, who,
gliding gently behind him, passed a hoop over his head down to his elbows, and
thus fettered the victim, whom he afterwards pillaged at his leisure. Polidori informed us that
Byron often composed a hundred verses in the course of
the morning. On his return from the theatre in the evening, still under the
charm of the music to which he had listened, he would take up his papers, and
reduce his hundred verses to five-and-twenty or thirty. When he had in this
manner put together four or five hundred, he sent the whole to

356

APPENDIX.

Murray, his publisher, in London. He
often sat up all night, in the ardour of composition, and drank a sort of grog
made of hollands and water—a beverage in which he indulged rather
copiously when his Muse was coy. But, generally speaking, he was not addicted
to the excessive drinking, though he has accused himself of that vice. To
restrain the circumference of his person within proper limits, he frequently
went without a dinner, or, at most, dined on a little bread and a solitary dish
of vegetables. This frugal meal cost but a franc or two; and on such occasions
Byron used, with much apparent complacency, to accuse
himself of avarice. His extreme sensibility to the charms of music may partly
be attributed to the chagrin occasioned by his domestic misfortunes. Music
caused his tears to flow in abundance, and thus softened the asperity of his
suffering. His feelings, however, on this subject, were those of a débutante. When he had heard a new
opera for upwards of a twelvemonth, he was often enraptured with a composition
which had previously afforded him little pleasure, or which he had even
severely criticized. I never observed Byron in a more
delightful or unaffected vein of gaiety than on the day when we made an
excursion about two miles from Milan, to visit the celebrated echo of
la Simonetta, which repeats the
report of a pistol-shot thirty or forty times. By way of contrast, the next
day, at a grand dinner given by Monsignor de
Brême, his appearance was lowering as that of Talma in the part of Nero. Byron arrived late, and was obliged
to cross a spacious saloon, in which every eye was fixed on him and his club
foot. Far from being the indifferent or phlegmatic personage, who alone can
play the dandy to perfection, Byron was unceasingly
tyrannized by some ruling passion. When not under the influence of nobler
failings, he was tormented by an absurd vanity, which urged him to pretend to
every thing. But his genius once awakened, his faults were

APPENDIX.

357

shaken off as a garment that would have incommoded the flight of his
imagination: the poet soared beyond the confines of earth, and wafted his
hearers along with him. Never shall I forget the sublime poem which he composed
one evening on the subject of Castruccio-Castracani, the Napoleon of the idle age. Byron had one
failing in common with all poets—an extreme sensibility to praise or
censure, especially when coming from a brother bard. He seemed not to be aware,
that judgments of this nature are generally dictated by a spirit of
affectation, and that the most favourable can only be termed certificates of
resemblance. I must not omit to notice the astonishing effect produced on
Lord Byron by the view of a fine painting of Daniel Crespi. The subject was taken from a
well-known story of a monk supposed to have died in the odour of sanctity; and
who, whilst his brethren were chanting the service of the dead around his bier
in the church at midnight, was said to have suddenly lifted the funeral pall,
and quitted his coffin, exclaiming, ‘Justo
judicio Dei damnatus sum!’ We were unable
to wrest Byron from the contemplation of this picture,
which produced on his mind a sensation amounting to horror. To indulge his
humour on this point, we mounted our horses in silence, and rode slowly towards
a monastery at a little distance, where he shortly afterwards overtook us.
Byron turned up his lips with an incredulous sneer
when he heard, for the first time, that there are ten Italian dialects instead
of one; and that amongst the whole population of Italy, only the inhabitants of
Rome, Sienna, and Florence, speak the language as it is written. Silvio Pellico once said to him: ‘The
most delightful of the ten or twelve Italian dialects, unknown beyond the
Alps, is the Venetian. The Venetians are the French of Italy.’
‘They have, then, some comic poet
living?’—‘Yes, replied
Pellico; ‘a charming poet; but as his
comedies are not allowed to be performed, he composes them under the form

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APPENDIX.

of satires. The name of this delightful poet is
Buratti; and every six months,
by the governor’s orders, he pays a visit to one of the prisons of
Venice.’ In my opinion, this conversation with Silvio
Pellico gave the tone to Byron’s
subsequent poetical career. He eagerly demanded the name of the bookseller who
sold M. Buratti’s works; and as he was accustomed to
the expression of Milanese bluntness, the question excited a hearty laugh at
his expense. He was soon informed, that if Buratti wished
to pass his whole life in prison, the appearance of his works in print would
infallibly lead to the gratification of his desires; and besides, where could a
printer be found hardy enough to run his share of the risk? an incomplete
manuscript of Buratti cost from three to four sequins. The
next day, the charming Comtessina N. was kind enough to
lend her collection to one of our party. Byron, who
imagined himself an adept in the language of Dante and Ariosto, was
at first rather puzzled by Buratti’s manuscripts. We
read over with him some of Goldoni’s comedies, which
enabled him at last to comprehend Buratti’s satires.
One of our Italian friends was even immoral enough to lend him a copy of
Baffo’s sonnets. What a crime
this had been in the eyes of Southey!
What a pity he was not, at an earlier period, made acquainted with the
atrocious deed! I persist in thinking, that for the composition of Beppo, and subsequently of Don Juan, Byron
was indebted to the reading of Buratti’s poetry.
Venice is a distinct world, of which the gloomy society of the rest of Europe
can form no conception—care is there a subject of mockery. The poetry of
Buratti always excites a sensation of enthusiastic
delight in the breasts of the Venetian populace. Never, in my presence, did
black and white, as the Venetians themselves say, produce a similar effect.
Here, however, I ceased to act the part of an eyewitness, and here,
consequently, I close my narrative.”

APPENDIX.

359

XXXII.

Letter from Fletcher, Lord Byron’s Valet, to
Dr. Kennedy.

“Lazaretto, Zante, May 18, 1824.

“Honoured Sir,

“I am extremely sorry if I have not had it in my power
to answer the kind letter with which you have honoured me, before this; being
so very unwell, and so much hurt at the severe loss of much much-esteemed and
ever-to-be-lamented lord and master. You wish me, Sir, to give you some
information in respect to my Lord’s manner and mode of life after his
departure from Cephalonia, which, I am happy to say, was that of a good
Christian; and one who fears and serves God, in doing all the good that lay in
his power, and avoiding all evil. And his charity was always without bounds;
for his kind and generous heart could not see nor hear of misery, without a
deep sigh, and striving in which way he could serve and soften misery, by his
liberal hand, in the most effectual manner. Were I to mention one hundredth
part of the most generous acts of charity, it would fill a volume. And, in
regard to religion, I have every reason to think the world has been much to
blame in judging too rashly on this most serious and important subject; for, in
the course of my long services, more than twenty years, I have always, on
account of the situation which I have held, been near to his Lordship’s
person: and, by these means, have it in my power to speak to facts which I have
many times witnessed, and conversations which I have had on the subject of
religion. My Lord has more than once asked me my opinion on his
Lordship’s life, whether I thought him as represented in some of the
daily papers, as one devoid of religion, &c. &c.—words too base
to mention. My Lord, moreover, said ‘Fletcher, I know you are what, at least, they call a

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APPENDIX.

Christian; do you think me exactly what they say of
me’ I said, ‘I do not, for I had too just reasons to
believe otherwise.’ My Lord went on, on this subject, saying,
‘I suppose, because I do not go to the church, I cannot any longer
be a Christian;’ but (he said) moreover, a man must be a
great beast who cannot be a good Christian without being always in the
church. I flatter myself I am not inferior in regard to my duty to many of
them, for if I can do no good, I do no harm, which I am sorry to say of all
churchmen.’ At another time, I remember it well, being a Friday,
I at the moment not remembering it, said to my Lord, ‘Will you have a
fine plate of beccaficas?’ My Lord, half in anger, replied,
‘Is not this Friday? how could you be so extremely lost to your
duty to make such a request to me!’ At the same time saying,
‘A man that can so much forget a duty as a Christian, who cannot,
for one day in seven, forbid himself of these luxuries is no longer worthy
to be called a Christian.’ And I can truly say, for the last
eight years and upwards, his Lordship always left that day apart for a day of
abstinence; and many more and more favourable proofs of a religious mind, than
I have mentioned, which hereafter, if I find it requisite to the memory of my
Lord, I shall undoubtedly explain to you. You, Sir, are aware, that my Lord was
rather a man to be wondered at, in regard to some passages in the Holy
Scriptures, which his Lordship did not only mention with confidence, but even
told you in what chapter and what verse you would find such and such things,
which I recollect filled you with wonder at the time and with satisfaction.

“I remember, even so long back as when his Lordship
was at Venice, several circumstances which must remove every doubt, even at the
moment when my Lord was more gay than at any time after. In the year 1817, I
have seen my Lord repeatedly, on meeting or passing any religious ceremonies
which the Roman Catholics

APPENDIX.

361

have in their frequent
processions, while at Nivia, near Venice, dismount his horse and fall on his
knees, and remain in that posture till the procession had passed: and one of
his Lordship’s grooms, who was backward in following the example of his
Lordship, my Lord gave a violent reproof to. The man, in his defence, said,
‘I am no Catholic, and by this means thought I ought not to follow
any of their ways.’ My Lord answered very sharply upon the
subject, saying, ‘Nor am I a Catholic, but a Christian; which I should
not be, were I to make the same objections which you make; for all
religions are good, when properly attended to, without making it a mask to
cover villany; which I am fully persuaded is too often the case.’
With respect to my Lord’s late publications which you mention, I am fully
persuaded, when they come to be more fully examined, the passages which have
been so much condemned, may prove something dark; but I am fully persuaded you
are aware how much the public mind has been deceived in the true state of my
lamented master. A greater friend to Christianity could not exist, I am fully
convinced; in his daily conduct, not only making the Bible his first companion
in the morning, but, in regard to whatever religion a man might be of, whether
Protestant, Catholic, Friar, or Monk, or any other religion, every priest, of
whatever order, if in distress, was always most liberally rewarded, and with
larger sums than any one who was not a minister of the gospel, I think, would
give. I think every thing combined together must prove, not only to you, Sir,
but to the public at large, that my Lord was not only a Christian, but a good
Christian. How many times has my Lord said to me, ‘Never judge a man
by his clothes, nor by his going to church, being a good Christian. I
suppose you have heard that some people in England say that I am no
Christian?’ I said, ‘Yes, I have certainly heard of such
things by some public prints, but I am fully convinced of their
falsehood.’ My Lord

362

APPENDIX.

said, ‘I know
I do not go to church, like many of my accusers; but I have my hopes I am
not less a Christian than they, for God examines the inward part of the
man, not outward appearances.’ Sir, in answer to your inquiries,
I too well know your character as a true Christian and a gentleman, to refuse
giving you any further information respecting what you asked of me. In the
first place, I have seen my Lord frequently read your books; and, moreover, I
have more than once heard my Lord speak in the highest terms of, and receive
you in the most friendly manner possible, whenever you could make it convenient
to come to Metaxata; and with regard to the Bible, I think I only may refer to
you, Sir, how much his Lordship must have studied it, by being able to refer to
almost any passage in Scripture, and with what accuracy to mention even the
chapter and verse in any part of the Scripture. Now, had my Lord not been a
Christian, this book would most naturally have been thrown aside, and of course
he would have been ignorant of so many fine passages which I have heard him
repeat at intervals, when in the midst of his last and fatal illness. I mean
after he began to be desirous. My Lord repeated ‘I am not afraid to
die;’ and in as composed a way as a child, without moving head or
foot, or even a gasp, went as if he was going into the finest sleep, only
opening his eyes and then shutting them again. I cried out ‘I fear his
Lordship is gone!’ when the doctors felt his pulse and said it
was too true. I must say I am extremely miserable, to think my Lord might have
been saved had the doctors done their duty, by letting blood in time, or by
stating to me that my Lord would not allow it, and at the same time to tell me
the truth of the real state of my Lord’s illness: but instead of that,
they deceived me with the false idea that my Lord would be better in two or
three days, and thereby prevented me from sending to Zante or Cephalonia, which
I repeatedly wished to do,

APPENDIX.

363

but was prevented by them, I
mean the doctors, deceiving me: but I dare say you have heard every particular
about the whole; if not, I have no objection to give every particular during
his illness.

“I hope, Sir, your kind intentions may be crowned with
success, in regard to the publication which you meant to bring before the
British public. I must beg your pardon, when I make one remark, and which I am
sure you know too well the tongues of the wicked, and in particular of the
great, and how glad some would be to bring into ridicule any one that is of
your religious and good sentiments of a future state, which every good
Christian ought to think his first and greatest duty. For myself, I should be
only too happy to be converted to the truth of the Gospel. But at this time, I
fear it would be doing my Lord more harm than good, in publishing to the world
that my Lord was converted, which to that extent of religion my Lord never
arrived; but at the same time was a friend to both religion and religious
people, of whatever religion they might be, and to none more, or more justly
deserving, than Dr. Kennedy.

“A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics of
mine were embarked, was detained a few days ago, and released by order of your
Highness. I have now

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to thank you, not for liberating the vessel, which, as
carrying a neutral flag, and being under British protection, no one had a right
to detain, but for having treated my friends with so much kindness while they
were in your hands.

“In the hope, therefore, that it may not be altogether
displeasing to your Highness, I have requested the governor of this place to
release four Turkish prisoners, and he has humanely consented to do so. I lose
no time, therefore, in sending them back, in order to make as early a return as
I could for your courtesy on the late occasion. These prisoners are liberated
without any conditions; but should the circumstance find a place in your
recollection, I venture to beg that your Highness will treat such Greeks as may
henceforth fall into your hands with humanity; more especially since the
horrors of war are sufficiently great in themselves, without being aggravated
by wanton cruelties on either side.

An article was
written in “The Westminster
Review” (Medwin says
by Mr. Hobhouse) to show that the Conversations were altogether unworthy of
credit. There are doubtless many inaccuracies in the latter; but the spirit remains
undoubted; and the author of the criticism was only vexed, that such was the fact. He
assumes, that Lord Byron could not have made this or that statement to
Captain Medwin, because the statement was erroneous or untrue; but
an anonymous author has no right to be believed in preference to one who speaks in his own
name: there is nothing to show that Mr. Hobhouse might not have been
as mistaken about a date or an epigram as Mr. Medwin; and when we find
him giving us his own version of a fact, and Mr. Medwin asserting that
Lord Byron gave him another, the only impression left upon the
mind of any body who knew his Lordship is, that the fault most probably lay in the loose
corners of the noble Poet’s vivacity. Such is the impression made upon the author of
an unpublished Letter to Mr.
Hobhouse, which has been shown me in print; and he had a right to it. The
reviewer, to my knowledge, is mistaken upon some points, as well as the person he reviews.
The assumption, that nobody can know any thing about Lord Byron but
two or three persons who were conversant with him for a certain space of time, and whom he
spoke of with as little ceremony, and would hardly treat with more confidence than he did a
hundred others, is ludicrous; and can only end, as the criticism has done, in doing no good
either to him or them. . . .

“Dear Sir;—Amongst the
agreeable things which you say of me in your life of Lord Byron, you conjecture that I
‘condemned’
Childe Harold
previously to its publication. There is not the slightest foundation for this
supposition—nor is it true as you state, ‘that I was the only person
who had seen the poem in manuscript, as I was with Lord
Byron whilst he was writing it.’ I had left
Lord Byron before he had finished the two cantos, and,
excepting a few fragments, I had never seen them until they were printed. My own
persuasion is, that the story told in Dallas’s Recollections of some
person, name unknown, having dissuaded Lord Byron from
publishing Childe Harold, is a
mere fabrication, for it is at complete variance with all Lord
Byron himself told me on the subject. At any rate, I was not that
person; if I had been, it is not very likely that the poem which I had endeavoured
to stifle in its birth, should, in its complete, or, as Lord
Byron says, in its ‘concluded state,’ be dedicated to
me. I must, therefore, request you will take the earliest opportunity of relieving
me from this imputation, which, so far as a man can be written down by any other
author than himself, cannot fail to produce a very prejudicial effect, and to give
me more uneasiness than I think it can be your wish to inflict on any man who has
never given you provocation or excuse for injustice. . . .

I am glad to find my college
stories administered relief to your nerves, when we were together in the Malta
packet some one and twenty years ago; and I am not sorry that my wearing a red
coat at Cagliari, and cutting my finger in the quarries of Pentelicus, should
have furnished materials for your present volume; but to repay me for having
supplied these timely episodes, as well as for your copious extracts from my
travels in Albania, and also for inserting my note about Madame Guiccioli without my leave, you must
positively cancel the passage respecting Childe Harold
in page 161 of your little volume. . . .

I wonder that even common policy did not induce you to be
more cautious in making statements which might be so easily disproved, and
which have, indeed, been already incontrovertibly refuted. The very
conversation, which you have judiciously selected from Medwin, as one of those parts of his trumpery book to the truth of which you
can speak, I know to be a lie; for I never went the tour of the lake of Geneva
with Lord Byron. . . .

You tell me that your wish has
been to give only an outline of his intellectual character. I am at a loss to
understand how your gossip about him and me, and the silly anecdotes you have
copied from very discreditable authorities, can be said to be fairly comprised
in such an outline. But your plan ought certainly to have compelled you to make
yourself thoroughly acquainted with his poetry, and to quote him just as he
wrote. Nevertheless, you have misrepresented him at least nine times in the ten
stanzas of that poem which you call the last, and which was not the last, he
ever wrote. Oh, for shame! stick to your acknowledged fictions—there you
are safe—you may deal with Leddy
Grippy and Laurie Todd as
you please, but not with those who have really lived, or who are still
alive. . . .

And there was another funny thing o’ his, till a queer looking lad, one
Mr. Skeffington, that wrote a tragedy, that was called
“The Mysterious Bride,” the whilk
thing made the Times newspaper for once witty—for it
said no more o’t, than just “Last night a play called The Mysterious
Bride, by the Honorable Mr. Skeffington, was performed at Drury Lane.
The piece was damned.” Weel, ye see it happened that there was a masquerade some nights after,
and Mr. Cam Hobhouse gaed till’t in the disguise
o’ a Spanish nun, that had been ravished by the French army— . . .

Giorgio Baffo (1694-1768)
Venetian dialect poet and composer of pornographic sonnets; in 1910 his poetry was edited
by Guillaume Apollinaire.

George Bartley (1782 c.-1858)
English actor engaged by Sheridan at Drury Lane in 1802; he was stage-manager at
Covent-Garden in 1829.

Sarah Bartley [née Williamson] (1783-1850)
English tragic actress who made her London debut at Covent Garden in 1805; in 1814 she
married the actor George Bartley (1782?-1858).

John Thomas Becher (1770-1848)
Educated at Westminster and Christ Church, Oxford, he was vicar-general of Southwell
(1818) and Rector of Barnburgh, Yorkshire (1830). He was a friend of Byron, the Pigots and
the Leacrofts.

George Anson Byron, seventh Baron Byron (1789-1868)
Naval officer and Byron's heir; the son of Captain John Byron (1758-93), he was lord of
the bedchamber (1830-1837) and lord-in-waiting (1837-1860) to Queen Victoria.

Queen Caroline of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel (1768-1821)
Married the Prince of Wales in 1795 and separated in 1796; her husband instituted
unsuccessful divorce proceedings in 1820 when she refused to surrender her rights as
queen.

Castruccio Castracani, duke of Lucca (1281-1328)
an Italian condottiero and duke of Lucca; his life was the subject of a biography by
Machiavelli and a novel by Mary Shelley, Valperga; or, the Life and
Adventures of Castruccio, Prince of Lucca, (1823).

Daniele Crespi (1590-1630)
Italian baroque painter who worked in Milan.

Isaac D'Israeli (1766-1848)
English essayist and literary biographer; author of Curiosities of
Literature (1791). Father of the prime minister.

Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)
Florentine poet, the author of the Divine Comedy and other
works.

William Fletcher (1831 fl.)
Byron's valet, the son of a Newstead tenant; he continued in service to the end of the
poet's life, after which he was pensioned by the family. He married Anne Rood, formerly
maid to Augusta Leigh, and was living in London in 1831.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1749-1832)
German poet, playwright, and novelist; author of The Sorrows of Young
Werther (1774) and Faust (1808, 1832).

George Gough-Calthorpe, third baron Calthorpe (1787-1851)
The son of the first baron; he was educated at Harrow where he was a contemporary of
Byron, and St. John's College, Cambridge; he succeeded his brother in the title in
1807.

Henry IV, king of France (1553-1610)
King of France from 1589 to 1610; in 1598 he enacted the Edict of Nantes giving religious
liberties to Protestants.

Henry IV, king of England (1366-1413)
Son of John of Gaunt; after usurping the throne from Richard II he was king of England
(1399-1413).

John Cam Hobhouse, baron Broughton (1786-1869)
Founder of the Cambridge Whig Club; traveled with Byron in the orient, radical MP for
Westminster (1820); Byron's executor; after a long career in politics published Some Account of a Long Life (1865) later augmented as Recollections of a Long Life, 6 vols (1909-1911).

James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)
English poet, journalist, and man of letters; editor of The
Examiner and The Liberal; friend of Byron, Keats, and
Shelley.

James Kennedy (1793 c.-1827)
Scottish physician in the British forces; his experiences with Byron in Cephalonia were
published as Conversations on Religion with Lord Byron
(1830).

Richard Knolles (d. 1610)
English historian and translator; author of The Generall Historie of
the Turkes (1603).

Vincent Mignot (1730 c.-1791)
French man of letters, the nephew of Voltaire, and author of Histoire
de l’empire Ottoman.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu [née Pierrepont] (1689-1762)
English poet and epistolary writer, daughter of the first duke of Kingston; she quarreled
with Alexander Pope and after living in Constantinople (1716-18) introduced inoculation to
Britain.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
Irish poet and biographer, author of the Irish Melodies (1807-34),
The Fudge Family in Paris (1818), and Lalla
Rookh (1817); he was Byron's close friend and designated biographer.

John Murray II (1778-1843)
The second John Murray began the Quarterly Review in 1809 and
published works by Scott, Byron, Austen, Crabbe, and other literary notables.

Emperor Napoleon I (1769-1821)
Military leader, First Consul (1799), and Emperor of the French (1804), after his
abdication he was exiled to Elba (1814); after his defeat at Waterloo he was exiled to St.
Helena (1815).

Silvio Pellico (1789-1854)
Italian dramatist and revolutionary sentenced to death in 1821; his sentence was commuted
and he published a prison memoir, Le mie prigioni (1832).

John William Polidori (1795-1821)
Physician and secretary to Lord Byron who accompanied him to Switzerland; author of The Vampire (1819) which he attributed to Byron.

Lady Frances Riddle [née Marsham] (1778-1868)
Sponsor of a masked ball at which Byron appeared in 1802. The woman Moore identifies as
“Lady Riddle” is possibly Frances Marsham, daughter of Charles Marsham, first Earl of
Romney, who married Sir John Buchanan Riddell, ninth baronet, in 1805.

Robert Southey (1774-1843)
Poet laureate and man of letters whose contemporary reputation depended upon his prose
works, among them the Life of Nelson, 2 vols (1813), History of the Peninsular War, 3 vols (1823-32) and The Doctor, 7 vols (1834-47).

Germaine de Staël (1766-1817)
French woman of letters; author of the novel Corinne, ou L'Italie
(1807) and De l'Allemagne (1811); banned from Paris by Napoleon, she
spent her later years living in Germany, Britain, and Switzerland.

Stendhal (1783-1842)
The author of The Red and the Black (1830) and The Charterhouse of Parma (1839).

François-Joseph Talma (1763-1826)
French tragic actor and reformer of the stage who was admired by Napoleon.

The Arabian Nights. (1705-08 English trans.). Also known as The Thousand and One Nights. Antoine Galland's
French translation was published 1704-17, from which the original English versions were
taken.